


So seid recht gut auf allen Wegen (So be good in all your journeys)

by Prismabird



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Anxiety, Cocaine, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Polyamory, Road Trips, Sex fixes everything, Social Anxiety, Suicidal Thoughts, especially in the back of a car, mention of underage/statutory rape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-02-19 12:00:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22310659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prismabird/pseuds/Prismabird
Summary: Far from home for the first time, Till finds solace from the unfamiliar in the arms of the familiar (based on Till, Richard, and Oli’s first trip to America in 1993).
Relationships: Richard Kruspe/OFC, Richard Kruspe/Till Lindemann, Till Lindemann/OFC, Till Lindemann/OMC
Comments: 21
Kudos: 66





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place during Till, Richard, and Oli's trip to the Southwest, starting on the California coast. During this time, Flake, Paul, and Schneider were in Florida, on a trip of their own, so they're not in this fic.  
> Till's social anxiety is real, but I'm basing it heavily on my own here - in other words, this is not accurate, but is based on true events.

Not moments after their wheels touched down, Till Lindemann decided that he hated America.

Looking over Oli’s shoulder, Till peered out of the tiny window of their plane. Under the stark blue sky, the city scape stretched out before them, suburbs and townhouses and palm trees all placed just so, giving way to towering office buildings on the horizon. It looked like a toy town made huge, a place where one could get lost for a long time and not find a friendly face. Till thought about what it would be like to be lost among those buildings – closed in like a plastic box, like a plexi-glass coffin. He quickly looked away and longed for a forest.

On his left, Richard slept on, his mop of blonde hair falling into his eyes. Richard, who was at peace with their travels, who seemed to never worry and somehow approached all things like he was in command. How, Till didn’t know - Reesh knew maybe five words of English. Both he and Oli were relying on Till, who’s own English was broken at best, to get them through this. Madness. Even in his home country, even in his own language, he was useless when anxiety grabbed him. And right now, they were halfway around the world, in a country where they didn’t know the customs. Three giant Germans, one with dreadlocks. He could already feel eyes on him. He swallowed.

Getting off the plane made him feel no better. Oli tripped over his own feet and accidently pushed an old lady. Richard cackled, and shouted a joke over Till’s head in German. Till did his best to ignore them as he counted his own breaths.

His panic eased some, once off the plane and in the airport, though it was one of the busiest places Till had ever been. A few years ago, after the wall fell, he’d gone into a supermarket in Berlin, and become so overwhelmed by all the sights and smells and _choices_ , he’d had to run back outside before he’d started hyperventilating. Over time he’d gotten a little more used to it, though he still didn’t care for the downtown area of Berlin. Los Angeles Airport was that times ten, with fast food and coffee shops and lines snaking into the walkways. People all around him were chatting and laughing and calling to each other, a sea of unfamiliar sounds, peppered with a familiar word here and there.

They retrieved their luggage without incident, and then lined up at the car rental counter. “I’m hungry,” Richard complained. “Let’s get food first.”

“Airport food is expensive,” Oli told him. “We’ll get something soon.”

It was their turn. Till gathered his resolve. Beside him, Richard gave his arm an encouraging little squeeze. He walked up to the desk on tingling feet and put his hands on the counter. “I need a car,” he said in English.

“****** what **** of car ***** you like?” the woman behind the desk asked. Till cringed inside. She spoke a lot faster than he’d expected.

“Only just a small car,” he replied. He’d heard cars in America were huge, and he didn’t want to end up paying for some ten-seater van for just the three of them.

“Smoking or non?”

“Smoking.”

“Toyota *****?”

“Okay,” Till said.

“I** need a ***** credit card and your ***** please.”

“What is? I pay with cash,” Till said.

“We ****** credit cards. To pay cash, I’ll need the ******.”

She left them then, to go to the back. “I think I messed it up,” Till said.

“I don’t think you did,” Richard stroked his arm up and down, fingers squeezing his bicep, a steady presence reminding Till that he was not on his own. He breathed as deep into his chest as he could and chided himself for being so afraid, so nervous at nothing. No one was mad. No one was mocking him.

The young woman came back with an older woman who Till presumed was the boss. “If you want to pay cash, sir,” she said, clearly, “that’s an *******. We will need a to make a copy of your ********* and passport, and you will have to pay **** price now.”

“Ja, I can pay now. For two weeks.” With all the confidence he knew Reesh had in him, he slapped the American money on the counter.

A bit of a shuffle and dance, and fifteen minutes later the rental agency pulled a small Toyota hatchback around. It was a little cramped, but Till wasn’t willing to try again for something bigger. This would work. Till slid behind the wheel, feeling calmer than he had all day. Finally, something he understood, something that wouldn’t surprise him, or confuse him. Just a car, which needed no language, which he could not fail. Beside him, Richard began messing with the radio, found a rock station, and lit a cigarette.

Next – food. They ended up in a cheap sandwich shop not too far from the airport. “Six inch or footlong?” the spotty teen behind the counter asked. Till turned to Reesh.

“Scholle, how big is a foot-long?” he asked.

“Bigger than your cock, but not as big as Oli’s,” Reesh replied. Behind him, Oli giggled. Till rolled his eyes and grinned.

Getting all three of their sandwiches was yet another struggle. A dozen questions, a thousand options, just to order a sandwich! How should he know what tasted best – if he did, he’d open his own deli, he supposed. For the first time in months, he actually longed for the DDR, where if you wanted a sandwich in a shop, there was one, maybe two kinds, and you ate what they gave you.

They found a table. Reesh took a bite of his sub and pulled a confused face. “Why is the bread sweet?”

“I don’t know,” Till said, “it’s not so bad. Just eat.”

“Ja, quit complaining,” Oli agreed, and Richard huffed and took another bite. “I wonder how Paul and the others are doing in Florida?”

“I’ll bet Flake hates it,” Richard said.

“Flake hates everything. And by hating everything, he actually hates nothing,” Till said.

“That makes no sense.”

“And somehow, it makes perfect sense for Flake, no?”

Normally Till liked to take his time and enjoy his meal, but the food was very mediocre and the deli shop (or whatever it was, the sign said it was a Subway, which Till thought would be a better place to catch a train than a meal) didn’t have the best atmosphere. Apparently, the others felt the same, because they wolfed down their food and were ready to go in no time. “Wait,” Oli said, drinking the last of his lemonade. “They have root beer. I want to try it; I’ve heard it tastes like medicine.” He came back a moment later and took a sip.

“What’s it taste like?” Richard asked.

“Medicine.” Oli said, cringing. He passed the cup around.

“Oh Gott. Ja, like cough syrup,” Till said.

“Sugary cough syrup,” Richard choked. “How do they drink this?” He took another sip. “I want to find a bottled one and bring it home. Make Paul drink the whole thing for ten marks.”

“Tell him it’s some fancy foreign food, he’ll pay you for the privilege!” Till laughed.

After another smoke break, they were back in the car. Till navigated traffic while searching out of the corners of his eyes. “We need to find a Motel Six. You can stay in them for, like, 25 dollars a night.”

“About 40 marks,” Reesh clarified for Oli. “Keep a look out.”

But as the sun started to set, and traffic grew worse, they were no closer to finding a Motel Six. They drove past many other chains, but most of them looked rather expensive. Jet lagged and lost, they finally pulled into a Best Western. “How much for one night, two beds?” Till asked the man behind the desk. He was getting very tired of struggling in this unfamiliar language. His tongue was actually achy.

“Fifty-five dollars, **** ***,” the man said. Till’s heart sunk.

“Around 90 marks,” Reesh mumbled sadly.

“That’s too much,” Till told the man.

The man shrugged. “That’s the price, sir.”

“Where are the twenty-dollar motels?”

The man stared at him like he was a loon. “In Alabama,” he said. “******** not in LA, at **** ****** you want to go.”

Till stood there for a moment, just staring. He was tired, he already missed home, he wanted his bed, his music, his language.

“It’s okay, Till, we can afford it for one night, maybe,” Richard rubbed a hand along his back. “If we stretch.”

“No,” Till said. “We can’t. We’ll have to figure something else out.”

Defeated, they finally pulled their car off onto the public beach. They’d slept worst places for certain. They first picked up some beer and a few other provisions, mainly a breakfast they could cook over a campfire in the morning, so by then the sun had dipped well beneath the horizon, and the stars had started to show themselves.

Oli wanted to stretch his legs and walk the shore. Till’s hand clenched hard around the steering wheel. His nerves were shot. He didn’t think he could be around almost anyone at this point. Richard took one look at him and decided for them. “We will stay here for now,” he said to Oli. “Have fun. Bring back drugs if you find them, ja?”

“I can’t do this,” Till said, once Oli had wandered away. “I don’t know what we were thinking. I can’t speak English. I can’t be this far from home. I wasn’t meant for this, Scholle, I’m not like you.”

“Like what?” Richard asked him, pulling his messy blonde locks back. “What am I like?”

Till sighed. “Brave. You’re brave and you’re this…old magic.” He waved his hands about in the air.  
“Like some cocky half-god.”

Richard grinned, clearly pleased. He pulled Till to him, leaning over the gearshift. “You don’t know yourself yet. You don’t see.”

“I don’t see what?” Till asked, and then said nothing more as Richard pushed his lips hard against his, tongue invading almost before Till had a moment to realize it. It startled him a little, and then made the world fall away, which he supposed was the point. Or it was, until Richard’s mouth started to head south.

This was going to happen. And somehow, it was going to happen in a four-seater Toyota hatchback. They’d manage.

Reesh’s hands ran under his shirt, searching his skin for…what, he didn’t know, but it was a desperate search. Soon, shirts were discarded, then pants. Till grunted as Richard’s hand played across the hard bulge in his boxers.

“There’s not enough room up here,” Richard whimpered, like his world was falling apart, like he was no longer a half- god, but a man dying of need. “Get… we need to fold down the back seat.”

“What – what about the luggage?” Till asked, his breath feeling hot against his own lips.

“Fuck it! Throw it out. Burn it. I don’t care.” Richard pulled open the car door and stepped out into the sand in nothing but his tented shorts. He tore into the back seat like an animal, throwing out everything he could get his hands on, tossing it into the sand like it was nothing. A little more the sheep than the wolf, Till followed him, and helped him fold the seat back. It wasn’t exactly roomy, but it was definitely workable.

They climbed back in and slammed the doors on their own little universe, where they were each other’s stars, where they were two half-gods made one whole. Their bodies entwined, sweat-wrapped in each other, mouths and hands searching. Under Reesh, Till could feel the rough upholstered seat against his back, holding him fast between Richard’s thighs, where he was safe, where every language was theirs, and every land was home. Richard’s fingers moved from where they played along Till’s cock down to his hole. Till looked up at him. “We need lotion or something, Scholle,” he panted.

“I have,” Richard said, grabbing it out of the front seat cup holder. “I got it from the bag.”

“Mmm…” Till angled his head up to nuzzle Richard’s chest, closing his eyes. “My clever Fuchs.” And then a moment later, Richard’s fingers were slick up and inside of him. And a breath after that…

“Ohh, gott…” Till moaned. “Bitte, bitte, fuck me! Fuck me!”

“Ja,” Richard groaned, catching a good rhythm. Till felt his whole body shake in time with Richard’s hips, thrusting hard against his ass. “Ja, baby. Moan for me. Beg for my cock.”

Till sucked in a gasp, and then the pleading words spilled from him like a song, his voice a musical lilt. “Ah, please! Reesh, give me your cock, make it deep, stretch me open, _please_ , fuck me, fuck me…”

Richard moaned, his head bumping the ceiling as he sped up. “My good boy. You’re gonna sing for me.”

“Huh?” Till breathed, eyes dazed.

“You’re gonna sing for me,” Richard said, grasping Till’s thick, hard cock in his fist, playing and pumping. He leaned over Till, like he was sharing some holy secret. “You’re gonna sing for the world…”

“What?” Had Till not been so far gone, he might have stopped to ask for an explanation. But heat was pooling in his groin, hot and overwhelming, so all he managed was a faint, “stupid.”

“I’m not!” Reesh’s breath fell like an ether on Till’s skin. “I know, Till! I saw it! I dreamed…” He thrust into Till again and again. “I know. I know. I know…”

Till had no idea what Reesh was talking about. It didn’t matter. He was teetering on the edge, just a stroke or two from losing control. Without him even begging, Richard cupped his tight balls and changed his stroke. “It’s gonna be good,” he said, and pumped hard. “We’re gonna – Oh fuck!”

Richard slammed home one last time, his hands pulling Till over the edge just after. “Uhh…Uhh!” Till breathed hard and fast, hips dancing, then slowing to a still in this moment, before the comedown. Before Reesh pulled out, and before he felt Reesh’s come slip out after and before he felt his own cooling sticky on his stomach. Before they had to be two again. Desperately, he tried to catalog this moment where they were one, and they were gods, and everything was in balance.

After a short walk, Oli came back to see their luggage strewn about in the sand, their little rented Toyota rocking on its axles. He suppressed a grin and shook his head. Just as well. Laying down on the dry beach, he tucked his jacket under his head, reached into his pocket and produced his newly bought joint and a lighter. Sparking it, he took a deep drag and stared up into the glowing stars above the sea for a long time before sleep took him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Far from home, Richard finds challenges where he wasn't expecting them.

The next day, they woke at dawn. After his morning smoke, Richard went with Till to borrow a pan from a couple camping nearby, and then built a small fire out of driftwood. As the sun rose, they had eggs, sausage, and cereal on the beach while the sun shone on their backs and the Toyota aired out in the sea breeze, at Oli’s insistence.

All of them had brought swimsuits. Richard stripped where he was and changed in the open, drawing more than a few startled eyes, Till noted. He and Oli opted to change in the car.

Richard had never set foot in the Pacific Ocean. As the tide rolled out, he walked in, chased it, met it instead of letting it roll over his feet. The water was cool, but not cold, comfortable and perfect for a swim. “Till! Kommst!” He shouted.

Till ran in after him, and dove into the waves, laughing. They raced to the nearest sandbar, fighting the current together, side by side. Till won, because of course he did, but the gap wasn’t as much as Richard had expected. He grinned at Till as they stood in waist high water, meters and meters from the shore. Till’s body glistened with water and sunlight, arms subtly flexed, pecks hard. Richard breathed. “Gott. I could take you right here.”

Till, already smiling and breathing heavy from his swim, froze at Reesh’s words. “You want?” he asked, his eyes glancing nervously back to shore. Reesh smiled back.

“Nein,” he said, reaching out for Till’s arm, giving it a reassuring rub. He knew that Till would agree to whatever Richard asked, but that didn’t mean that he wanted it, and it took a lot of careful observation to avoid overstepping the invisible line that even Till himself could not see.

Till noticeably relaxed, and shouted to Oli who was wading in. They played for over an hour, Till giving Richard “dolphin rides” on his back, and trying with Oli, but sinking to the bottom. They splashed in the ocean until exhausted, and then they napped side by side in the sand.

Finally it was time to go. “I want a shower,” Richard told them. He felt grimy, and sandy. He didn’t want to feel that way for LA.

Till and Oli laughed. “With those dreads, you look like you haven’t showered in weeks regardless.”

“I don’t want to smell,” Richard scowled at them. “Unlike some people I know.”

Till asked around and found out about a truck stop not far from the beach. They went in, Till and Oli flanking him in the shower room. Odd – Americans had problems with open nudity on the beach, but not open shower rooms in truck stops? But they were heavily ignored by all the other men, which suited Reesh just fine.

“Where first?” Till asked once all three of them were showered and freshly dressed.

“Hollywood,” Richard replied. Oli shrugged.

Richard had loved movies since childhood. Once, at ten years old, his neighbor had smuggled a few film reels, including Jaws, across the wall. Richard (then Sven) hadn’t been invited, but he’d overheard the adults talking about it in soft whispers. He’d made a point to show up, and weaseled his way into the private showing, projected on a bedsheet. The scenes of the ocean, and the terror that lurked beneath; blood fountains, severed heads, and men swallowed alive – he was captivated. A few years later as a runaway teenage boy with an unwanted buzz cut, he took to crashing with a fat woman in her 30s who had an interest in film and an interest in very young men. Richard, just shy of fourteen years old, sank himself into her flesh, and as a reward gained access to Bonnie and Clyde, Midnight Cowboy, The French Connection, The Godfather, 8 ½, 2001: A Space Odyssey.

Those movies felt like home when there was no home. He wanted to see their birthplace.

They pulled into the parking lot, where Richard leaned against the car with a cigarette and Till made cold brat sandwiches out of the cooler in the trunk. Beyond the gates of the studios, a swarm of people ran here and there, mostly tourists like themselves, but some probably low-level gofers after coffee and dry cleaning. It was its own little country, a mirror image of the one they’d lost – frantic and capitalistic and harmless. Richard loved it from the start.

They bought their tickets for the tour and loaded into the back of a tram. “Welcome ** **** Hollywood *****!” the guide said.

“Welcome to your Hollywood tour,” Till mumbled quickly into his ear. Richard grabbed his hand low where no one could see.

During the tram tour, Richard learned an English phrase: ‘This is where…’ “This is where the ***** **** Raiders of the Lost Arc *** ******.” “This is where Lucas ***** **** Star Wars. The **** Light saber ***** **** Vader!” “This is where…” And on and on. Oli looked bored out of his mind. Till, best as he could, whispered translations– not enough for him to fully understand, but enough to make him ache to understand more. He had to learn English, he realized. He had to. Some part of him, maybe some past life, cried out to speak the language. Besides which, it was unfair to rely on Till to translate. If they were going to be world famous, he’d better prepare.

They stepped off the tram to see the animation studio. “Donald Duck!” Till grinned at him, pointing at a framed picture of Richard’s favorite character. Richard scowled at him. Why did he have to try to ruin special moment for Reesh with mockery? Richard knew it was silly that he liked Donald Duck. Yet still, Till could keep it to himself.

They entered a little theater and watched an animator demonstrate (with the help of an interactive film) how the Warner Brother’s characters were created. Richard laughed a little as Daffy duck argued with the onstage animator, who threatened him with a giant eraser, but at the same time, it was frustrating. He knew what neither of them were saying.

But it was also thrilling to see characters he loved brought to life, and it was obvious that Till knew what it meant to him. Frantically, he translated everything he could, his breath hot against Richard’s cheek. 

Eventually, the high of Hollywood touched down, and they ended up wandering out and down the Walk of Fame, reading the names of stars under their feet. They walked west and bought an early dinner from a burrito cart. “Finally, some good fucking food,” Richard mumbled around his beef and guacamole taco. “Fa – yi -tah. Do you think we can get this at home?”

“Doubt it,” Till said. “I need a goddamn drink.”

They wandered into a little bar, where the beer was overpriced, but a friendly eye from Till and Richard singing a little song in German to the bartender scored them a free “welcome to America” shot. From there, they headed further west and ducked into another bar as the sun went down. Some little place with a guy who had hair like Richard played morose music and no one danced. They didn’t stay long there either. Finally, they ran across some huge club that looked like a Spanish style mansion with neon lights along the fence. “The Abbey,” Till read.

“What does that mean?” Oli asked.

“No clue. Let’s go in.”

They had to pay a cover, which sucked, but once inside, Richard couldn’t help but be impressed. Music thrummed through his head as he marveled at multilevel dance floors, neon lights, dancers in speedos and bikinis on the counter, and bodies everywhere. It was hot and a little dark and enormous. The kind of place where language did not matter – he began scanning the crowd for potential dance partners and realized something at the same time Oli did.

“This is a gay bar,” Oli said.

“…Ja.” Richard swallowed, eyes bright. He looked to Till, who was scanning the crowd as well. They’d been to a few gay clubs in Berlin, but Till wasn’t open about that part of himself, and even in the anonymity of a crowd, had trouble giving in. But maybe here, maybe halfway around the world, where no one could possibly know them?

They got drinks, which took some time. The club was packed, and every time Oli tried to lean over the bar to get the bartender’s attention, he got a pinch to the ass.

They each downed a double vodka, sitting nicely on top of the beers they’d had earlier. Richard started to feel hot and light. “Till,” he rubbed Till’s shoulder, “dance with me?”

Till took a deep breath and took his hand.

They danced together to some electro neither of them knew and never would. Richard tilted his face up to Till’s, lost in ecstasy, teasing his lips, and Till allowed it and kissed back, but Richard could tell that he was pushing his anxiety for Richard. A boundary crossed without knowing.

It was hard, frustrating. Richard pulled back, of course he did, because he would as soon feed himself to lions as he would hurt Till, but that didn’t make it easy. Richard liked display. He liked the validation of a crowd seeing his passion, and want, and need. When Till refused him that – it was because he was anxious, but it felt to Richard like he was refusing _him_. Rejecting him.

He breathed deep. Till had tried. That was worth a lot. So Richard smiled and kissed his cheek and led him to an less crowded space off to the side where several sofas and chairs sat in a semi open patio area , before wandering back to the bar. After some time, he got another shot, then head for the bathroom for a piss and a cigarette.

Richard stood at a urinal. A young man, maybe 20, watched him in the mirror with red eyes, eyes that offered a lot. “You a ******? **** **** the ****?” 

“No English,” Richard said to him.

The young man nodded and pulled a small baggie of white powder from his coat pocket. Richard’s mouth watered. That bag looked like more than a gram, and would last him the night and then some. “30,” the man said, holding up his fingers to say “3-0.” He didn’t need to. Before their trip, Richard had learned English numbers and conversions for Till, who’d had a math related panic attack.

Richard dug into his pocket, and before he knew it, was doing a line on a compact mirror right there. Gott. It was magic powder. It was fucking stardust. If he had enough, he’d live forever.

Richard wandered out of the bathrooms toward their spot. What he found…

On the couch beside Till sat a young, petite, brown-skinned man with soulful eyes and gorgeous hair. Richard couldn’t make out a single word, but the darker man was chatting like he was telling his life story, arm playing behind him on the couch and Till was leaning forward, listening with his soft sad eyes, and ….

…in that moment, Richard could not take it.

He had been mindful of Till’s anxiety, but what did that mean when his anxiety turned off the moment Richard disappeared? Was Till so easy around others, and frightened around him? What was this, was he tired of Richard, and his need for translation, and his moods?

Furious, he stormed out of the Abbey, feeling deep down that he might be overreacting, but too righteous on the stars of last line to stop. The night air was warm, and the neon lit his way as he stumbled to the entryway of an alley to sit on a crate.

He should go back. He should go back in and fuck that dealer. Suck him against the bathroom wall. Show Till just who was in charge.

But he didn’t, so the rage in him collapsed into sorrow. He felt alone on the streets. Tears came to his eyes, washing his magic dust out. He was alone on the streets, and he felt lost like a child. Worse than a child. He couldn’t even speak the language. He needed Till. Goddammit.

Tapping his foot in rhythm on the concrete, he dipped his nose into the little baggie and gave a good sniff. That was it. That would keep him strong and cunning and okay.

“Reesh!”

He looked up. Oli and Till were coming toward him. He tucked the baggie away quick, but he was no idiot. He knew what they had seen.

“Why did you go?” Till asked. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Richard said. “Needed some fresh air.” He realized how stupid it sounded the moment he’d said it. They had been sitting in a patio area, after all. But his friends didn’t say anything, just offered a hand up.

But as they approached the Abbey again, “Just take it easy on the blow tonight,” Oli said under his breath.

Richard glared at him. “Just take it easy on telling me what to do.”

“I’m serious.” Oli looked off at the sky as if pleading for patience. “You know how you get when you overdo it.”

The noise of the speakers as they walked through the door saved him from answering. But he knew what Oli was getting at, and it irked him that the soft-spoken fucker was right. Richard sometimes had problems with cocaine. By contrast, coked-up Till was a fucking delight – his social anxiety muted, he was confident, friendly, and creative. Till on cocaine was liable to meet you, hug you, hit on you, and write a poem about your asshole within the span of five minutes. Richard on cocaine was just Richard, but more so. Which could be intense.

The man with the soulful eyes was waiting for them, with a tray of drinks. “Negroni,” he said, offering a glass to each of them.

His name was Miguel, and he spoke English about as well as Till did. But in spite of the language barrier, Till was clearly captivated. From what Richard could gather, Miguel was charming, generous, and friendly, and _oh_ he wanted to hate him _so badly_. But over the hour his last hit began to wear off, and though he fingered the little baggie in his pocket over and over, he did not indulge again. Because his jealousy was chemical, and it was not fair. How many women had Till watched Richard lead off to an open bedroom? Till and Richard both had too much love and lust for one person – both were too in need of variety to be monogamous, and they were honest about it (…well, Till always was. Richard…tried). Hell, Richard had a girlfriend waiting for him back home, who he was sure would be greeting him with a kiss which promised more.

Richard half-listened to Till and Miguel speak a language he barely knew, and occasionally Till would throw him a tidbit here and there. “Miguel’s a musician too! He’s a drummer for a band called…was is?” he turned back to his new friend. Richard contemplated heading back to the bathroom, for another line or the petty blow job he’d contemplated earlier. “Doom Patrol.”

“That’s great,” Richard said. A waitress with a tray of colorful shots came around, and he bought one off her for fifty cents. On the couch, Till burst into hysterical laughter. “Scholle, guess what his nickname is?”

“I can’t understand him, Till,” Richard replied, but Till, well drunk and way too excited, didn’t notice his irritation. “G-spot Miguel. He says he always hits his mark.”

G-spot Miguel, as it turned out, lived nearby and his roommate was out of town. They walked a few blocks back to his duplex, a big, fancy Spanish style home. The living room was littered with instruments. Without asking, Richard picked up a guitar and began to strum. Apparently, Miguel liked what he was doing, and sat behind his drum set, tapping out a rhythm. Richard raised an eyebrow – it was one in the morning, but if Till’s new friend got slapped with a noise violation, that was hardly Richard’s concern.

They taught him “Seemann” and “Heirate Mich,” before Richard decided it was good a time as any to wander off to sleep. Fully down from the cocaine, his head was starting to throb. Without help he found the spare bedroom, where he passed out in his clothes.

He awoke an hour later needing to piss. He was at first surprised to find Oli curled up next to him, but then not really. As he wandered out into the hall, he could hear a familiar moan. He shook his head. G-spot Miguel indeed. They would never see him again, so let Till have his fun.

And the next morning (afternoon, really, but who was counting) they wandered back through the streets of LA, where people richer than they probably ever would be had ate fancy lunches and gave them side eyes. They wandered back to the lot, to their little Toyota Hatchback … or the place where it had been.

Their rental car was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The guys leave LA and find a new place to be idiots.

The cloudless sky hung almost fake blue above the city, people milling around one another with little acknowledgement – and in a Plexiglas booth amidst that river of people, Till was gonna kill himself. He had no gun, but he wagered he could bash his head hard enough into the phone booth walls, or perhaps his brain, throbbing under the pressure of the California sun, would simply explode.

“Please, speak slower!” he begged.

He was getting fucking frantic, his heart pounding. The woman on the other end of the line, it seemed, did not like him being German, and would not explain to him in slow simple English what they needed to do to get the car out of the impound lot. He could feel his teeth start to grind. 

He was going to either cry or rip the payphone off of its base. Neither was optimal.

“I ** ******* slowly. You need to **** * to ** ********Blvd and *** fine.”  


“Was? It is fine now?” he asked. 

“No,” the woman said. “You **** listening to me! You **** to pay your ticket for **** car!”

Till dug his palm into his eyes. “Where do I go?” 

They (Till) needed a few minutes after that. In the shadow of a parking garage, Richard and Oli tucked closely around him, looking ahead like centurions as he crouched on the concrete and breathed and breathed and breathed…

“We’re gonna go to a big forest park on this trip,” Richard said, not looking at him. “It’s gonna be so beautiful. Tall green trees and grass and fucking mud. Till, you can go barefoot in mud if you want. It’s gonna be so peaceful. Think of it?”

Till didn’t answer, but he did try to think of his feet in the cool mud, the smell of grass, the – god, the sounds of the birds, goddamn ethereal, if only he could write songs as the birds did. Finally, he rose to his feet, leaning just a little into Richard. 

“Are you ready?” Richard said. 

‘Yes,’ Till thought, but when he opened his mouth, what he said was, “If you’re there.”

Richard hardly let go of his hand the rest of the day, from the cab ride downtown to the impound lot to rescue their little black hatchback. Till wasn’t sure this earned them any points with the impound man, who glared at them with an upturned lip the whole time, but he didn’t care. He fucking loathed this city. He could barely breath in the ugly plastic doll-land that was LA, and he had to, HAD to get out of it. By the time he was back behind the wheel, it was late afternoon, and they were almost one hundred dollars poorer, but he didn’t care. It was time to leave LA.

The city highway gave way to the hill flanked freeway, which gently rolled into the desert. Till felt the tension seep from his muscles and out his breath at the natural surroundings, so stark and beautiful. They had nothing like this in Germany. He glanced over at Richard, who’s gaze was fixed out the window, his hand drifting up to the glass, prints obscuring the red brown landscape before him, feeling for some truth. “Do you believe in past lives?” he mumbled. Till glanced over, tracing the tight lines of Richard’s back with his eyes.

“Jein,” Till said, and swallowed. There was maybe a right or wrong answer to this unanswerable question. “I think… maybe our atoms remember where they have been… or maybe some souls are born in the wrong places… they are always looking for their old homes.” He paused. His words - they felt a little forced. He should be high for this discussion. 

“Ja,” Richard said. Till hummed, and stroked his back. His Reesh was forever looking for the place he should have been from. 

Till watched Richard stare out the window until eventually the sun set, and blue-orange landscape faded to an even purple. Lighting a cigarette, Richard took a drag, and then held it to Till’s lips for a puff. In the back, Oli rolled and lit a joint. Till squawked like an outraged parrot. “Oli! You have weed? You tight lipped fucker! Share!”

In the darkness ahead of them, red brake lights stretched like a blood river, like an artery in steady throb. They joined it and crept ahead, up and up and up, until they crested the Nevada hills. Till’s head started to swim. There was darkness – and then there was Vegas, the beating neon heart of the land. It called to him, a playground, a fucking carefree land of debauchery. He hummed a little moan of desire, and neither Richard nor Oli asked him about it. 

Traffic was slow, and by the time they descended into the city lights, Richard was rubbing Till’s thigh and looking for a parking place. Till felt like he was sinking in. He wanted to run like a wild child, like a beast, and only Reesh’s hand held him. 

A five-dollar lot and they were free to the night air. Till grinned at everything as they walked to the strip – at the lights which beamed and lit his face, at the sounds which mingled in his ears. He was lost to light and sound, Richard’s arm around his shoulder offering a little grounding. Gott, this weed was good. 

Eventually they wandered into a pirate themed casino - Till forgot to place the name. From every side, slot machines chirped and sang. One screamed, like an animal. He paused for a moment – it was all a bit much - then went in, summoning his bravery. He was going to have fun.

Oli found the poker tables quick. Till had no idea if he had a talent for cards or not, but he wasn’t feeling up to joining a game when he only half spoke the language just to find out. Oli would do as he would. Instead Richard followed him upstairs to an arcade, packed at the rows of Pacman and Galaga machines. He stopped on a game called Area 51 (words that Till knew but had no idea what they meant in context), where Richard took the controls, shooting aliens that leapt out from behind crates in a warehouse, exploding in cartoony gore.  


The arcade had a bar, which was fucking wild as far as Till was concerned. He bought two whiskey sours, and brought one to Reesh, five minutes deep into his game, who mumbled a quick thanks without taking his eyes off the screen. Till hmm’d back at him, and when he was given no response, wandered off. 

Past the arcade were midway games, ring toss, and netball, and balloon pop. Till joined three others at a spot at a game where he sat on a plush stool and aimed a toy gun at a target. It clicked uselessly as he played with the trigger. Then, a siren sounded – his gun came to life, firing water, and a plastic horse galloped in pantomime behind it 

He lost, because he’d never seen the fucking thing before, but he got it quick. Hit the target first and hold it in place. Win the race. More people wandered up, and this time he knew just where to keep aim. He won, not by much, but he won.

The man behind the station gave him a tiny toy dog, but he placed in on the counter with a dollar as a wager for something better. He played again. And again. His toy grew to a small stuffed tiger, then a big bear. 

In the end, his prize was a floppy stuffed monkey, near a meter long with shaggy fur and a purple bandana. It cost him nine dollars of play, but oh well. It had been fun, and it made him feel light and young and loose. 

He wandered up and down the midway, catching little magic shows and a pirate skit on the side. Gott. It was silly, but how fun! The mood brought to mind the little town fairs and Christmas markets of his youth, similar to back when he was a boy full of energy with a wild streak. Tents with lights and songs, and lots of wurst and pommes and chocolate. Memories of snow crunching under his boots as he ran between lit stalls full of candy and treats and toys, on his own with a few marks in his pocket. It had been bliss, although now that he was able to compare it with the abundance of the west, where every day could be a Christmas fair if one had a little money… he supposed it was weak nostalgia. Hugging his new monkey friend close, he hit the bar and ordered a beer, then two, then three, until he was feeling nice and warm.

He left the bar and searched the arcade, but Richard was nowhere in sight. No mind. They’d find each other later. 

A pretty woman sat at a slot machine. Till swallowed his shyness behind his drunk confidence and sat beside her. “Hallo. You are having good luck?” 

“Hi! Are you from another country?” 

He chatted with her for a few minutes before discovering that she was married and, while friendly, not open to too much more than conversation. He wished her luck and went on his way.

The next woman he talked to was less friendly. “I’m not here to talk,” she said, and Till took the hint fast.

He walked the bright carpeted halls listlessly, the flashing lights and sirens turning from exciting to irritating, lighting up his nerves. The youthful free feeling he’d had before faded, until he was just a grown man clutching a stuffed animal in public. Shame and nerves began to bubble up from inside, and he wanted his friends at his side again. 

“TILL! TILL!” 

And there was Richard, boasting a huge grinning from a seat in a nearby café booth, flanked by two blonde women, arms thrown casually behind their backs. Till smiled back and made his way over, feeling very self-conscious of his little monkey sidekick. 

“Hallo,” he said to the women. 

“Guten Tag!” the taller woman responded. “Wie gehts, niedlich?”

“She speaks German!” Reesh yelped, his eyes red and dilated dark with cocaine.

They were prostitutes, Till knew this somewhere deep down, but he was drunk and Richard was high, and the girls were kind and gentle. “You must be so strong,” one said, rubbing his shoulders. “I ***you could lift me over your head!” 

“Ja,” said the tall one. “Who’s this!?” She took hold of his stuffed monkey (who Till’d named Gregory) and hugged him. “So cute! Did you win him?”

“Ja,” Till said, feeling soft and hazy. He took a pull off a beer he didn’t remember ordering. “At a horse race.”

The girls laughed, and so did Richard, even though he didn’t seem to be paying attention, and then they laughed until they were upstairs and in a hotel room, and one of the girls was unbuttoning Till’s shirt. He wasn’t sure which one. They looked very alike. 

What happened next happened in snapshots, in dramatic pictures flashing through Till’s mind. He was at her breast, her nipple, rolling around on the bed, trying to find his angle. He was in. He was moving, methodically and well-practiced. She was warm, and nice, he supposed, and he searched her eyes for signs of pleasure. She looked away fast, so fast that Till felt almost embarrassed for trying to connect, and his own gaze darted away to the other bed. In it, Richard was pounding, hips thrusting hard enough to shake the bedframe, and Till watched him, transfixed, until Richard looked up and they caught gaze. And he didn’t look away. 

Till didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to be with this woman who wouldn’t meet his eyes. Richard was right there. They didn’t need these women. They could be skin and sweat and cum all over the bed together instead of with a couple of paid strangers, where Till had to play at dominance, when all he wanted was to get on his knees and worship Reesh’s cock. 

Till watched until Richard came, and then followed him like a good boy. 

On the springy hotel mattress, Till rolled to the side, breath hot and wet as he pulled out and let go, the whole room full of bad mojo. This wasn’t the plan. He wasn’t supposed to feel jealous. They weren’t supposed to -”

“One fifty each, please,” the tall one said in German. She got up from Till’s bed and gathered her clothes from around the room. 

“One hundred, you said, “Richard growled. “Together.”

“Nein. Pay it, or you’ll find trouble. 

“We don’t want problems,” Till said, holding up his hands. “I have one hundred twenty dollars. Will that do for me?” 

The woman, whom Till had been inside not three minutes before, made a face like she was doing him a favor. “Fine. 120.”

Feeling a little sick, Till pulled on his underwear and pants, dug around in his pocket, and pulled out six twenty-dollar bills. Counting them in front of her, he laid them on the bed. Beside him, Richard gathered his clothes and did the same, sneering as he flicked through a handful of cash, wearing nothing but his blue briefs. Slowly, he placed them on the comforter, about to let go when he grasped the handful of cash and shouted, “LAUF!” 

Richard ran, and it was only by some mindless instinct that Till snatched his money back before breaking out into a sprint, his shirt left behind. 

They flew toward the elevator, arms and legs pounding forward in blind animal panic as a deep and masculine voice barked “HEY” at them, their footsteps thudding behind. Neither of them dared to look back at what had to, HAD to be the womens’ security fast on their heels. 

The elevator wasn’t there yet. Instead, Till flung open the stairwell, taking the stairs half a flight at a time. Behind him, and then suddenly ahead of him, Richard practically flung himself over the railings, swinging with wild abandon to the next floor below. Till almost laughed in spite of everything. Fucking god, he must have cocaine for blood cells right now. One day it might kill him, but today it was going to save him.

They hit the bottom floor and without risking a glance up, burst out of the stairwell into the gaming floor. Till had no shirt, and no shoes. Richard could only vaguely hold his clothes in front of himself, wearing nothing but his underwear. Everyone’s eyes were instantly on them, eyebrows high, mouths mumbling, and more than a few grins and chuckles.

“Is this a new show?” one older woman asked her husband. “No, let’s stay and watch!”

“ ‘scuse us,” Till said, ushering them both to a corner where Richard put on his clothes almost supernaturally fast. 

“Let’s go,” Richard said, his voice high and tight as wire. “Move, move, move.”

“I’m moving!” Till yelped. Jesus. He felt like he was in some sort of half-asleep bad dream, dodging crowds of people, strange faces clogging the space between bells and blinking lights and clouds of smoke. Red and black carpet stretched out forever, soft and slightly oily on his bare feet. Looking ahead, there was the door, the exit into night.

And between, was Oli.

He was walking amongst the slots, grinning ear to ear when he spotted his friends. “Hey, I won 400 dollars!” he called to them, like he’d been holding the news for hours.

“Oli, let’s go, run!” Richard cried. Bless Oli, he never asked questions. 

They were out the door and into the hot night air seconds later, taking off in the direction opposite the car. 

Till could have run for a long time, for kilometers maybe, but Oli and Richard both slowed before even one. As they caught their breath in front of Caesar’s Palace, Richard started to laugh. Till didn’t. “I need a shirt,” he mumbled. “And shoes.”

Richard ignored him, his laughter ringing out over the crowd. “Oh mein gott! Gott, Till, what the fuck, I cannot wait to tell Paul about this!”

Till didn’t reply. His could feel his throat cinch tight, and his eyes wet. Stupid, stupid…

Richard stopped laughing. “What’s wrong? …Till?”

“Ja, Till?” Oli asked.

Till mumbled something that Richard only half heard.

“What? Who’s Gregory?” 

“I left my stuffed monkey!,” Till huffed. “I left him in the room.”

There were a few seconds where everything was both too loud and too quiet. Till stood there, his face hot, waiting for his friends to laugh. They didn’t. Instead, he felt and hand on his left shoulder, then one on his right as they flanked him, same as they’d done before, what felt like a year ago, though was less than a day. “I’m going to win you a new one,” Richard said, his voice determined. “The best toy monkey in Vegas.” 

Till smiled just a little, and felt his wobbly grin grow and take over until he burst out into laughter. “You’re crazy,’ he said, rubbing his eyes dry. Then “I’m crazy.”

They found a kiosk selling cheap t shirts in half a second, and a shop with sneakers for them both after that. 

Oli’s treat. Lucky bastard.


End file.
